Agent of Change by Steve Miller, Sharon Lee Page A
Authors: Steve Miller, Sharon Lee
Tags: Science-Fiction
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flamestick, and tucked it in her belt. Enlightenment dawned with a grin of delight, and she departed on her mission.
"Mr. Phillips, I'm going to have to insist that I see you."
"Mr. Smith, I'm going to have to insist that you produce a legal document giving you the right." Miri was back for two more brandies, which she carried into the other bedroom. Smoke was beginning to waft from the doorway across the room.
"Have you any other questions?" he asked Pete.
"Why did you leave your post on the Salene?"
"It was not as profitable an association as I had hoped for, Mr. Smith. But I fail to see what that has to do with your problem. Salene did not ship explosives. I met no one there named O'Grady. I have met no one named O'Grady since I have been on Lufkit. I doubt if ever in my life I have met anyone named O'Grady, but I give you leave to explore the possibility." Smoke wisped sweetly from his former bedroom to billow with the smoke from Miri's.
He stopped dialing brandies and splashed the contents of one of the remaining snifters on the carpet around the bar. Miri appeared, picked up two more glasses, and carried them to the comm chair and the sofa, touching the flamestick to the cushions.
"Mr. Smith?" Val Con asked the remote.
Miri came back for the remaining snifters and began to splash the carpet.
"What?" Pete snapped.
"Have you other questions? I really must return to my own business." He held up a hand, stopping Miri from igniting the carpet.
"Any other—yeah, I do." Pete took an audible breath. "Are you a geek, Mr. Phillips?"
"Are you a horse's ass, Mr. Smith?" Val Con hit DISCONNECT. Miri touched the flamestick to the carpet.
Somewhere within the building, bells began to ring; a hiss of water striking flame came from Miri's bedroom as the sprinkler system activated itself. There were shouts from the hallway.
Miri and Val Con were already through the kitchen escape hatch. He slammed it to, twisted two knobs, and spun to find her shaking her head.
"Real genteel."
He grinned. "Thank you."
Then they were moving without haste down the small service corridor, toward the larger world beyond.
Chapter Five
HE WAS MALE, though that rarely mattered to him. Indeed, he was hardly male at all, in the sense of lyr-cat, bearded Terran stud, or mouse. What mattered more to him was his name, which might take up to three hours of introduction when spoken to humans and, spoken fully, might consume nearly twelve hours. For purposes of the visas and other official papers that hasty humans required of one, there were several short forms of his name, which pleased him.
He was regal, as befitted a T'carais and a being more than nine hundred Standard Years old, though among his race he was known for his occasional hasty action. On visas he was thus: Twelfth Shell Fifth Hatched Knife Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spear-makers Den, The Edger.
Some few of the Clans of Men—Terran and Liaden separately they named themselves—knew him reasonably well as Edger. He enjoyed this informality; it reminded him of those early days of learning his trade and life role.
With him now traveled other functionaries of his Clan: The Handler, The Selector, The Sheather, and, off-planet, The Watcher. Most of the Clan was home, growing knives in the cold, beautiful caverns of Middle River. His group of five had been sent by the Elders out into the wide universe to discover what knives were required. "Market research" his visa named this vast adventure, though Edger himself thought of it more fully as "Education." After all, one had to discover the uses and users of a knife before one could know what blade to grow, what edge to encourage, what handle to smooth, what sheath to mold. He never doubted that knives were needed, or that knives from the Knife Clan of Middle River were needed most of all.
So far, they'd been seven years on this hectic trip. Edger felt confident that another
"Mr. Phillips, I'm going to have to insist that I see you."
"Mr. Smith, I'm going to have to insist that you produce a legal document giving you the right." Miri was back for two more brandies, which she carried into the other bedroom. Smoke was beginning to waft from the doorway across the room.
"Have you any other questions?" he asked Pete.
"Why did you leave your post on the Salene?"
"It was not as profitable an association as I had hoped for, Mr. Smith. But I fail to see what that has to do with your problem. Salene did not ship explosives. I met no one there named O'Grady. I have met no one named O'Grady since I have been on Lufkit. I doubt if ever in my life I have met anyone named O'Grady, but I give you leave to explore the possibility." Smoke wisped sweetly from his former bedroom to billow with the smoke from Miri's.
He stopped dialing brandies and splashed the contents of one of the remaining snifters on the carpet around the bar. Miri appeared, picked up two more glasses, and carried them to the comm chair and the sofa, touching the flamestick to the cushions.
"Mr. Smith?" Val Con asked the remote.
Miri came back for the remaining snifters and began to splash the carpet.
"What?" Pete snapped.
"Have you other questions? I really must return to my own business." He held up a hand, stopping Miri from igniting the carpet.
"Any other—yeah, I do." Pete took an audible breath. "Are you a geek, Mr. Phillips?"
"Are you a horse's ass, Mr. Smith?" Val Con hit DISCONNECT. Miri touched the flamestick to the carpet.
Somewhere within the building, bells began to ring; a hiss of water striking flame came from Miri's bedroom as the sprinkler system activated itself. There were shouts from the hallway.
Miri and Val Con were already through the kitchen escape hatch. He slammed it to, twisted two knobs, and spun to find her shaking her head.
"Real genteel."
He grinned. "Thank you."
Then they were moving without haste down the small service corridor, toward the larger world beyond.
Chapter Five
HE WAS MALE, though that rarely mattered to him. Indeed, he was hardly male at all, in the sense of lyr-cat, bearded Terran stud, or mouse. What mattered more to him was his name, which might take up to three hours of introduction when spoken to humans and, spoken fully, might consume nearly twelve hours. For purposes of the visas and other official papers that hasty humans required of one, there were several short forms of his name, which pleased him.
He was regal, as befitted a T'carais and a being more than nine hundred Standard Years old, though among his race he was known for his occasional hasty action. On visas he was thus: Twelfth Shell Fifth Hatched Knife Clan of Middle River's Spring Spawn of Farmer Greentrees of the Spear-makers Den, The Edger.
Some few of the Clans of Men—Terran and Liaden separately they named themselves—knew him reasonably well as Edger. He enjoyed this informality; it reminded him of those early days of learning his trade and life role.
With him now traveled other functionaries of his Clan: The Handler, The Selector, The Sheather, and, off-planet, The Watcher. Most of the Clan was home, growing knives in the cold, beautiful caverns of Middle River. His group of five had been sent by the Elders out into the wide universe to discover what knives were required. "Market research" his visa named this vast adventure, though Edger himself thought of it more fully as "Education." After all, one had to discover the uses and users of a knife before one could know what blade to grow, what edge to encourage, what handle to smooth, what sheath to mold. He never doubted that knives were needed, or that knives from the Knife Clan of Middle River were needed most of all.
So far, they'd been seven years on this hectic trip. Edger felt confident that another
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